


The Great Shift

by Daria2weird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Random & Short, Would take place around S9e21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3847810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daria2weird/pseuds/Daria2weird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abaddon is dead and Crowley is off celebrating the only way he knows how - human blood binging. Someone or something has taken his place in Hell and is on its way to ruling over both Hell and Earth. Can it be stopped?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Shift

The dynamic between hunters and monsters were the same as they had ever been. The big bad creature shows up somewhere on the globe, and a bunch of hunters snuff it out. The monster goes straight to Purgatory, where it will live out the rest of its non-life being hunted by other creatures much worse than human hunters… for eternity. 

Same old, same old. But Purgatory was changing.

There were millions that resided there, hiding in trees, bushes, underground. Some didn’t manifest at all until they wanted or needed to. But there was no organization. There was no leadership. In fact, it was a leviathan that insisted that leadership was the key to getting out of Purgatory once and for all. Then, he did just that and got sent back there by a couple of hunters and their angel.

But the leviathan, still insisting that he be called the human name of Dick Roman for some reason, was stirring things up again. One of the aforementioned hunters that had taken him down, Dean Winchester, had lived amongst them for a year and laid waste to most of the beings he encountered. The angel that had accompanied him did slightly less damage, but had also killed many creatures. Word spread quickly that one of the two might single-handedly wipe out all of Purgatory. 

Dick Roman didn’t care for such words. He immediately had them tracked, becoming angrier and angrier when his soldiers came back empty-handed or not at all. He was losing his flock to the same witless, uncivilized, delicious snacks that had led to his fall on Earth. When word traveled back to him that the hunter had seemingly disappeared from Purgatory, Dick wanted to find out how and where. He enlisted the help of most of the bottom-feeding, idiot creatures that didn’t know how badly they really needed a leader. He ordered them to scour any and all areas traveled by the human hunter and his allies. He told them it was the key to escaping Purgatory.  
Unsurprisingly, monsters don’t need much motivation to track humans and angels, and the promise of leaving Purgatory behind only made the deal sweeter. Of course, they looked. It nearly took them a year, but they finally found the spot that became a bright, shimmering portal when in the presence of humans. And they only found it because it opened again, spitting out yet another Winchester and a hitchhiking soul. Dick Roman was promptly told about the portal’s location, but not the reason it had opened once more. That was called ‘bad news’, which no one was willing to give the impatient leviathan leader. And that was why only one creature scouting a very remote, quiet area of Purgatory knew of the existence of a different portal –a portal to Hell.

But he didn’t say a word to anyone else about it. He just hovered in the area, watching and waiting for the right moment.

Almost another year passed before the time came. Abaddon was dead, killed at the hands of Dean Winchester –the human hunter of Purgatory, possessor of the Mark of Cain, and the Righteous Man who tortured souls in Hell. Now that she was gone, Hell was in shambles. Like Purgatory, it had no leadership and demons spilled out through half-open, half-guarded Gates of Hell to possess humans and bring their brand of chaos to Earth. Some demons fought one another in hopes of taking over as King of Hell, but others waited patiently for the real King of Hell –Crowley.

But the King of the Crossroads was on leave, celebrating the fall of the Knight of Hell instead of reclaiming his throne properly and taking the reins of Hell. He drank scotch in Scotland and shot himself so full of human blood that he was finally able to enjoy watching The Notebook and Dead Poets Society the way they were meant to be watched: with real human emotion. He may as well had fallen off the face of the earth.

And that was the right moment.

The creature in Purgatory, squatting in the three trees that met as one and waiting, heard rumors of the chaos and made his move. He closed his eyes, making that oh-so-special mental connection with his Alpha again. He saw the face and figure of the suited man that had tortured and killed the Alpha Shapeshifter –dark beard, English accent, calm demeanor. It was that easy to become him, shedding the skin of the last human he had become, Dante Jacobson. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the right clothes, but a quick download of Crowley’s thoughts allowed him to recall a room full of tailored suits close by. He walked right in, knowing that there wasn’t going to be a demon army to stop him. There wasn’t going to be any bloodshed. So he wasn’t afraid.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam looked up from his book at Dean, who was pouting into a book of his own, probably still thinking about the First Blade, like he often claimed that he wasn’t. It wasn’t that Sam wasn’t used to Dean’s lies by now. He just didn’t like how quickly and easily they rolled off his tongue. He didn’t like that his older brother could look him in the eyes and lie to him without a moment’s hesitation.

Dean finally felt Sam’s eyes on him and looked up from his book with a roll of his eyes. “Did you need something, Sam?”

But Sam shook his head and turned back to his book. “No.” He read half a line from the next paragraph before he slammed the book shut and looked back up at Dean. “Okay, yes… This has to stop.”

With a sigh, Dean closed his book and rested his hands on its cover. “What has to stop?”

“This attitude of yours. I mean, what is it? Are you not eating enough? Or getting enough sleep?”

“Not hungry. Not tired.”

“Then, what?”

Dean tilted his head as he studied Sam’s expression. His brother seemed genuinely confused as to Dean’s problem. “You know what? Can we not have a heart-to-heart right now? I’m really not in the mood.”

“That’s my point, Dean. You’re not in the mood for much of anything anymore. Ever since you got that mark –”

“The mark? No, Sam. This has nothing to do with the mark. This is about yo¬u and your ungrateful, bitchy attitude.” Dean was practically yelling in his brother’s face, but he didn’t care. Sam frowned and Dean pushed on. “You were dying and, for better or worse, I found a way to save you. Then you throw it back in my face and act like I’m a damn Nazi or something. Bottom line, I saved your ass, and you tell me that we can’t hunt as brothers anymore. You said keep things ‘strictly business’. Well, that’s what I’m doing. And if you don’t like it, I could give a rat’s ass. This was your little request, not mine.” He got up and walked out of the room, probably headed to his bedroom where he usually went to go sulk. 

Sam should have said something, should’ve gone after him, but he didn’t. His jaw was clenched too tightly and his body was much too stiff. If he followed Dean feeling the way he did now, he’d probably punch his big brother right in his face. He really didn’t want that, especially with Dean juiced by the Mark of Cain. Sam was angry, not suicidal.

Sam’s cell phone rang and he snatched it from his pocket, barely glancing at the number before he answered it. “Yeah?”

“Sam?”

The familiar voice shook Sam from his anger. “Garth? Is that you?”

“Yeah. Hey, uh… did you get those videos I sent you?”

He almost lied. Sam hadn’t checked his email in weeks, focusing instead on Mark of Cain research and tracking Abaddon. “Hang on.” He opened his laptop and quickly logged on, finding six different emails from GFitzPup2013@yahoo.com. He quickly opened the videos, watching short news reports of strange happenings around the world. People were claiming to be attacked by packs of invisible dogs. There were videos of rising black smoke that swirled in the sky before shooting off somewhere in the distance. The increased reports of a possible flu strain that turned people’s eyes black or red might have been Sam’s favorite. Leave it to the media to sensationalize demonic possession as the next bird flu.

Sam cleared his throat and looked up similar news stories, finding none that were specific to one area. This was happening everywhere like the signs of the apocalypse. “Demons have been busy.”

“Tell me about it. There have been demonic omens all over the place. I lost track of ‘em all. It’s been going on for a while now. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

“Dean and I have kind of had our hands full with other things lately.”

“Well, no offense, but if there isn’t a world left, then it might be harder to deal with your handful of things.” Garth sounded out of breath and a bit panicked.

“Are you all right?”

Garth hesitated a moment before answering. “When you didn’t answer my emails, I was worried they’d gotten you.”

“I’m good, Garth. Me and Dean, promise.”

But Garth’s breathing didn’t slow down. It actually picked up a little. “Well, I actually called for something more specific than this. I was wondering if you happen to know of anything that slows down hellhounds.”

Sam’s eyes widened when he heard the distant but distinct howl of a hellhound over the line. “A hellhound is chasing you? Why is a hellhound chasing you?”

“I don’t know, Sam. But I figure that’s not really important at the moment.”

“Right. Um, so goofer dust and salt stops ‘em. And uh, iron. Can you get to any of those things?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

Sam heard a loud crack on Garth’s end just before the phone went deadly silent. Hopefully, Garth had only dropped his phone.

-0-0-0-0-0-

This was new.

People were listening to him, bowing to him, calling him ‘Your Excellency’.

Before, he was called disgusting… monster… freak… Now, he had respect, even if it was attached to someone else’s name. He didn’t mind. Demons called him ‘sir’ now. And soon the rest of the world would join them in doing the same.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam and Dean had hit the road less than a few hours after Garth’s call, checking in on him once more and receiving no answer. They immediately headed for Wisconsin, where they knew he and his wife Bess last lived. When they got to Garth’s place, he opened the door with a relieved smile and hugged his fellow hunters. 

Both he and Bess were fine, having just narrowly escaped six hellhounds. One of them had swallowed Garth’s dropped phone. He’d need another one soon, but other than that he was fine. Luckily, Garth found an old shotgun of his filled with consecrated iron rounds from one of the last hunts he’d gone on before becoming a werewolf. The bullets had taken down one hellhound and sent the others running. There were herbs of Devil’s shoestring at every door and window, as well as salt lines. They were well protected for now. 

Dean, however, couldn’t understand why he and Sam were chasing this. He was still in a mood, and he made sure that everyone knew it. “Look, I’m glad you and the, uh, missus made it, Garth, but Sam and I need to get going.”

“Go where exactly?” Sam asked, his eyebrows knit in frustration. “We need all the leads we can get. Garth has been tracking all of this more than we have. I think we should at least hear what he has to say.”

Dean only rolled his eyes and folded his arms.

Garth handed Sam a folder with a half-inch stack of paperwork inside. “Dean’s right, I suppose. I don’t have much, but there are enough omens to suggest this is a demon thing. I called a few of my old hunting buddies –”

“You’re a werewolf, Garth. You cannot contact other hunters! Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Sam and Garth only stared at Dean, though the daggers definitely came from Sam’s eyes. “Dean –”

“It’s okay, Sam.” Garth was quick to squash whatever was going on between the brothers. Other than the fact that it just made him uncomfortable, he knew his wife was easily riled up, and he didn’t want anyone baring teeth or guns. “But it was Marty and Don. They’ve known about me for a few months. They’re harmless.”

“You don’t have to explain.” Sam leafed through the papers in the folder. “What did they say, Garth?”

“They said that the demons they questioned said that their orders came from Crowley.”

Again, Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, he is the King of Hell. And we already know that hellhounds don’t usually start ganking random people while running in packs. We know who they answer to, Sam. Why are we wasting time here?”

Garth looked a little hurt to be considered a waste of time, but he forced a smile. “Anyway, I did some digging and found a guy matching Crowley’s description staying at the Holy Oaks Hotel in a penthouse suite in Spencer, Iowa. He’s actually been there for weeks. That’s all the information I’ve got, but if I can help out in any way –”

Dean was already on his feet and heading for the door. “Yeah, well thanks, Garth. But I think we can handle this one.”

Sam stood up and walked after him, turning back to face Garth and his wife. “Sorry. Dean’s been –just sorry, okay?”

Needless to say, Sam was not the least bit happy when he got into the car.

“You know, I’ve been thinking.” Dean only spoke first because he knew what was coming. If he could change the subject, then he might be able to avoid Sam’s wrath. Except, he didn’t want to avoid it. “I think we should bring Garth back into hunting again. He and his wife could live in the bunker with us. It would be like raising bloodhounds or something. Of course, we’d have to stock up on Snausages.”

“Will you just stop? I know the Mark of Cain is affecting you, but you don’t have to let it turn you into a dick. Garth is our friend. You couldn’t give him any more respect than that?”

“Look, Garth’s a good guy and all, but he’s still a werewolf, Sam. Any other circumstances, we’d have put a silver bullet in him and that Betty Crocker wife of his by now.”

“As long as they aren’t killing people –”

“I know, I know.” Dean kept his eyes on the road, but Sam saw his smirk. Had he really gone through all of that just to get a rise out of him? “So, Spencer, Iowa, huh? Is there any reason why we can’t just, I dunno, summon Crowley instead of driving almost 400 miles and wasting gas?”

Sam didn’t answer. Dean wouldn’t have asked that before. He loved driving the Impala cross-country and wouldn’t have thought twice about doing so for a hunt. Besides, he almost always used stolen credit cards to pay for any gas they “wasted”. The mark was changing him more and more every day.

When Dean glanced over at an annoyed Sam, he raised his eyebrows in anticipation of a lecture. But Sam didn’t give him one and only stared thoughtfully out of the passenger side window. So, Dean turned his attention back to the road, turning up his radio to drown out the silence. Sam thought he saw him smirk again.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Mr. Crowley? … Mr. Crowley, sir? … Your excellency?”

That was him. He’d almost forgotten. “What is it, Finn?”

The demon called Finn took a nervous step forward, holding a piece of paper in his shaking hands. “I’m supposed to give you an update on the conquest of London.” He said it like a question, looking up from the page in front of him like he was awaiting his master’s approval. Receiving a nonchalant hand wave, Finn smiled a little and continued. “We released more hellhounds and made six times as many deals out there as we usually do. Apparently, people are willing to sell their souls to get away from invisible dogs.”

The shapeshifter nodded. “What about the shadow demons?”

Finn quickly scanned down his paper, wishing that his majesty didn’t force him to go out of order. “Um… The daeva altars are being set up in some of the major capitals of the world. We’re having some trouble finding enough ingredients for the binding spells. But we should be up and running in a few days or so.”

The shapeshifter listened while Finn told him of other Hell-related things, like the increased number of souls being tortured instead of just waiting in an endless line. What had the real Crowley been thinking with that one? A cleaner, more efficient, dry-cleaned Hell; it was a fantasy that he’d made a reality. But it was so… boring. The King of Hell deserved entertainment, and what was better than the rhythmic screams of souls on the racks?

He smiled and gave his beard a scratch as he continued to listen.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean banged on the hotel door. When there was no answer, he started kicking in the door, getting the attention of a few other guests.

“Crowley! Open up!”

Sam looked around at the guests with a sheepish smile before leaning in closer to Dean. “You’re going to get us thrown outta here.”

“I’ll stop banging when this douchebag opens the door.” He banged on the door with his fists again. “CROWLEY!”

The door suddenly jerked open and Crowley looked at Dean with tired red eyes. Dean almost wished that they were the demon type of red eyes, but they weren’t. They were just red-rimmed and underlined by dark crescents at the lid. Looking over the demon’s shoulder, the boys saw a disheveled room with spattered blood on the floor surrounding an unconscious young woman.

Dean turned back briefly to Sam before pushing Crowley aside to enter the room. “He’s doped up on human blood again.” He shoved the so-called King of Hell down onto the floor by the woman. “I thought we agreed that if you did this crap again, we’d cut you a new cakehole.”

Crowley gave the woman a sad glance before facing Dean. “Actually, you and your moose locked me up in your little dungeon for forced rehab. Then, you tried to kill me with the First Blade, so forgive me for wondering what difference it makes to you if I’m sober or not.”

“We don’t care, Crowley.” Sam pulled out the demon knife threateningly. “We just want you to call off your mini-apocalypse.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Sam, looking genuinely confused. “What are you going on about?”

“The packs of hellhounds, the opened Devil’s Gates… We know, Crowley. Now call it off!”

“I haven’t –”

Dean grabbed Crowley up with one hand, the other wound back in a fist. “You’ve got ten seconds to call it off before I make you a new face.”

“You two are morons.”

“Seven… six…”

Crowley sighed and struggled against Dean’s grip on him. “You two saw what I did to Hell. I stripped away most of that S&M stuff, gave it some class. I’m King of Hell. The world is mine anyway.”

Dean brought his fist down on Crowley’s face, his smirk returning when the blow drew blood. “We’ve got sources that say the demons are doing this on your orders!”

Crowley spat out half a mouthful of blood. “Why would I go out of my way to do all this just to deny it now? If I’d done it, I’d say I did. It’s not me.”

Sam stopped to think a moment, lowering the knife in his hands. “Then who else would it be?”

-0-0-0-0-0-

The charade wouldn’t last. The shapeshifter knew that well. 

Becoming Crowley was a bit more involved than simply looking and acting like him. There were still some things that he couldn’t do. Crowley had an arsenal of power that a shifter just couldn’t duplicate. Certainly there were spells that could give him power, but spells didn’t last forever. Nothing did.

Just moments earlier, a group of demons came before him, dragging along a traitor to the great Crowley’s throne. They had thrown him to the ground, expecting their master to make an example of the Abaddon supporter. But the shifter could do little more than stare at the creature, unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he ordered his minions to send the demon off to be tortured and they had done just that. As king, he wasn’t obligated to use his powers before an audience, but the real Crowley probably would have.

Not having any actual powers would be a problem if he were ever challenged. But as long as he could give orders, he would be fine. The demons would fight for him as long as they stood behind him. He already had an idea of which ones he could trust to do that.

He was getting bored though.

Sitting in a chair barking commands all day long wasn’t as fun as he’d hoped. He got up every so often, strolling through the torture racks, listening to screams and pleas and cries. He gave his signature Crowley smile in response, but the shifter was less and less satisfied with every moment that passed. And many moments passed. After all, time passed faster in Hell. He had taken the throne several months ago, while only a week or so had passed on Earth.

Hell was a great place to rule over, and the world would soon be his if everything went according to plan. But then what? Heaven? They didn’t have the numbers or the firepower. Demons were fierce, but angels were organized warriors. Even fallen, the angels had more power than he could ever hope to have. Purgatory then? Dick Roman and the other leviathans would be able to see right through him. He was surprised that the demons couldn’t. 

So what was left to do?

Was this why Crowley wasn’t here yet? Was he running from this responsibility, this boredom… this burden? Was being King of Hell a dead-end job?

The shifter sighed and leaned back in his throne –no more than a simple chair now. What did a throne in Hell really mean anyway? He propped his feet up on a few rotting meat suits as a demon possessing the body of a stripper named Asia gave him a wink as she walked by.

He wondered if there had ever been any shifter-demon hybrids.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Crowley’s head hurt, he was sweaty, and he felt nauseous, though less while lying down. He didn’t remember feeling like this when he’d last kicked human blood. He didn’t like it.

But he was powerless with all of the blood pumping through him and he needed power to beat whatever it was that had taken over. He hoped that it wasn’t an Abaddon flunky. That meant a demon with a flock of supporters. That was the last thing he needed –a civil war in Hell.

He looked up from the bed, wishing that the Winchesters would leave, but they were still there, hovering and moving bodies out as inconspicuously as possible. Crowley thought he heard Dean speaking with the manager about relocating movie props from a horror flick that was filming in town. They must have believed it because the boys returned without the body and took their time moving the other two that were in the bathroom.

When they returned, Crowley opened his eyes to find Dean staring impatiently at him. He was pacing the floor, twirling a knife in his hand every so often before turning back to glare at Crowley again. “This is ridiculous. We should be out there, finding the thing that’s doing this, not playing Betty Ford Center with the King of Hell.”

“Out where?” Crowley asked. “If demons are looking to me for their orders again, then that means that I had to put in some face time in Hell.” He waited patiently for them to play catch up.

“Then it’s something that can make itself look or sound like you.” Of course, it was Sam who figured it out first. Dean was too angry and too consumed by the thought of getting to kill something to think. “A shapeshifter maybe?”

Dean sighed heavily. “Or a leviathan. But it still doesn’t change the fact that we need to find it and take it down.”

Crowley shook his head, looking over at Sam. “Moose, you mind helping your brother out? He’s still not getting it.”

“If it can look like Crowley, then it doesn’t have to hide anywhere. It’s probably in Hell.”

“Okay… Then, you wanna maybe hurry this along?” Dean sighed. “Sober up so we can –”

“What? Kill it?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. He was starting to feel more like himself again. “Not a chance.”

Dean finally stopped pacing. “Why the hell not?”

“Exactly. Because it’s Hell. And even though you two are guaranteed box seats in the fiery pits if I have anything to say about it, Hell isn’t your jurisdiction.” He pointed to himself. “King of Hell. If I have any issues, then I’ll tag you in, but assume no news is good news, boys.”

“You’re benching us?” Dean’s fists were clenched around the handle of his blade. 

Crowley stood up to lessen the threat of the towering Winchesters. “Go take a look in a mirror. You want to kill something so badly that you’re actually shaking right now. You’re unstable. Blame Cain’s mark or don’t. But if I take you to Hell and you kill whatever this thing is, then what? You’re giving me your pinky promise that you won’t turn on me and the other demons down there? Please.”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a growl come from the older Winchester. “If we hadn’t found you today, you wouldn’t have a Hell to go back to!”

“And you’ll always have my gratitude.” Crowley smirked. He could feel his power returning to him, not that he’d need much for a shapeshifter or leviathan. But he might need some to defend himself from a powered-up Dean Winchester. “But my legacy will never be ‘the demon who let a Winchester loose in Hell’. You want to be of help? Stay put. Figure out all this fallen angels nonsense. Get those winged pains in my ass off the streets and back on their clouds. Hunt if the mark needs you to, but leave Hell to me.”

By the time Dean started toward him with the knife, Crowley was gone.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Crowley wasn’t surprised to find his doppelganger sitting on his throne. He was more surprised by the expression of boredom on his face. The creature barely heard Crowley come up to him, and his eyes almost lit up when he finally noticed.

Unfortunately, Crowley knew the look well. “Guess being King of Hell wasn’t everything you thought it’d be?”

The shapeshifter shook his head. “I didn’t expect it to be easy, but it was supposed to be fun, wasn’t it? I mean, who doesn’t dream of being king of something? I gave orders and I tortured souls and I… The demons look to me for answers. They call me sir. They adore me, and all I’ve wanted to do is escape.”

“You should have.”

But the monster wasn’t afraid. He got up from the throne and stood face to face with Crowley. He looked tired and Crowley could see that he didn’t want to fight.

The King of Hell had just enough humanity left in him to pity the thing. “Being king isn’t easy. But it’s not a burden. What did you think it would be? A wild weekend in Vegas? Did you ever think that maybe this wasn’t satisfying to you because you weren’t able to rule as yourself?” When Crowley didn’t receive a response, he walked past the creature and sat down in his chair. It was just as he’d remembered it –comfortable, but not so comfortable that he’d feel too lazy to work. “What are you? Shifter? Leviathan? Pagan god?”

“Shapeshifter.” It tensed its shoulders and Crowley thought it might very well try the escape that it had mentioned. But it finally turned to face Crowley again, its eyes lowered as the King of Hell’s words rattled around in his head.

“I suppose that’s the curse of you poor bastards, isn’t it? Anonymous from birth until death… No identity, just identities. It’s almost poetic.”

“If you’re going to kill me, then get on with it. I know what I am. I’d rather you not Dr. Phil me to death.”

Crowley tented his fingers and thought a moment. After a minute or so, he sighed. “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t even want to torture you. For one thing, I’m too tired. Just go back out however you came in and close the door behind you. Can’t have things like this happening every time I turn my back.”

The shifter’s feet felt glued in place. This had to be a trick of some kind. “Why would you let me go?”

“Because you’re downright handsome and no threat to me. Besides, you didn’t do much damage down here. I can undo everything you’ve done in a matter of hours. It’ll confuse the hell out of my men, but it’s doable. But believe me, if I see you in here again, I’ll get creative. Just consider yourself lucky.”

There was no hesitation this time and the shapeshifter left the room. He was only spotted by a few demons on his way out, but they didn’t bother their king. Finally, the door to Purgatory was before him and he walked through it with a content smile. He immediately shed his Crowley skin and reverted back to the form he’d chosen before –the human called Dante.

It still wasn’t his face or his name, but it was familiar and easy. No one would call him ‘Your Excellency’ or probably even Dante, but that was okay. In Purgatory, his responsibilities were limited to self-preservation, pure survival. 

Hell would soon be a memory, maybe even a fond one after some time passed. He’d be lying on the ground and staring up at the sky, thinking about the time he’d taken the reins of Hell and had nearly taken over the world. He’d tell other shapeshifters his tale and they’d probably call him delusional. But he would know.

Yes, it would be a pretty good memory.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for my mother, a giant Crowley fan. If you like, comment. If you don't, that's cool too. Free country and all that, right?


End file.
